North by Northeast

by Cherime MacFarlane

  Warren waited as Hamish processed the information. He could almost hear the wheels turning in his young partner's head. "Tha reporter ye're friendly with, will ye call him? Mayhap there is something we dinnae ken."

  "I'll get it done as soon as we get off the phone," Warren replied.

  "Give me ah moment more, I need tae think." Warren could picture Hamish holding the phone with those near black eyes of his closed, as he ran the situation through his head.

  "She's only done two other shows in tha U.S. since we came home. Call tha gallery, tha one near Marina Del Rey. 'Tis Blenden or Blondin somethin. Find out if there have been any other strange disappearances of artists. Anywhere in tha country, a five-year time frame, mayhap."

  "Wait." Warren pulled a pad of paper and a pen from the drawer beneath his phone. He pushed the phone under his chin as he made notes.

  "All tha major galleries should ken such matters. 'Tis a closed world, somewhat like music. Will ye call tha bleedin gallery in Seattle tae get a guest list? 'Tis called tha SeaSide Gallery. Tha shows are by invitation. I've this feelin..."

  In the background, Hamish heard Warren writing on his ever-present pad. In the silence, he swallowed hard. MacGrough tried to recall the name of the Santa Barbara gallery, but it refused to come to mind. Lori probably had it in her book, but he didn't have time to go find it.

  She never used the computer to its full capacity. Hamish had tried to get her to start using the calendar without success. She needed to put shite where he could find it in an emergency. He squelched a moan.

  "Will do, Hamish. If we turn up any disappearances, I'll see if there is any information still available from the galleries, if an artist was associated with one. Art houses usually keep the information for later contacts."

  "Aye. I'm shaking in me boots. Scared silly. I only hope tha polis take this seriously. Bloody hell, ye ken how I feel about havin tae deal with those shites again. While ye're at it, find me tha name of a good solicitor in Seattle, please."

  "Done. Call me when you get in, no matter what time it is."

  "Bless ye. I must get crackin."

  "Be careful, MacGrough. Take care getting from the glen to the airport. Don't kill yourself, man."

  "Ah, Warren, if anything happened tae Lori..."

  "Do not even think it, Hamish. Calm down! Just get here in one piece."

  "Aye, Warren. Ta."

  He put the phone down. Warren just stared at it. Right there with Hamish, he shook in his boots. There should have been a ransom demand. Warren called his secretary at home. The woman was appalled at the news. Warren read Hamish's list to her.

  His next call went to the reporter. In exchange for information before anyone else had it, Warren got his friend to make a trip to the newspaper archives. The individual promised to call him back if he found anything.

  The promoter pulled his personal address book from the top desk drawer in his home office. Warren's next calls went to Hamish's old band mates, Lurch, Thud, and Glen. Glen, the bassist, and Thud, the drummer, were in Los Angeles doing studio work together on Glen's next album.

  Hamish would need moral support at the very least. Warren understood he was too old to go along to help keep Hamish sane. It might take some muscle to keep his young partner together. Warren had witnessed the extremes Hamish would go to if he thought Lori might be in danger. This might well turn nasty.

  In the last four years of their partnership, Warren had learned to take his young partner's intuition seriously. The one time he insisted on a deal against Hamish's better judgment, he found eating crow distasteful. Copious amounts of crow, unfortunately, which Warren decided he didn't wish to sample again.

  Once, after a very late night, Hamish had confided to Warren his mother claimed Hamish had "the sight." While toying with his glass of scotch and ginger ale, Hamish explained to Warren he often questioned following his first instincts.

  It explained the reason Hamish allowed Warren to ramrod him into giving in on the bad deal. The one thing Hamish no longer questioned was the bagpipe lament. When the lament hit, his partner went with his gut, regardless of how crazy it might seem.

  Warren went to his den to make a drink. Normal life had just been derailed. If he knew Hamish as he thought he did, this would be expensive. Nothing would stand in the Scot's way when it came to his wife.

  The business, their partnership, did extremely well over the last few years. He attributed that in part to the Scot's instinct for choosing talent. If Hamish lost Lori, everything would go to hell in a hand basket for a while, until he got it together again. Warren refused to consider the possibility of Hamish not recovering from so great a hit. The young man was a survivor, but it would surely take time.

  "Nah. Not going there," Warren told himself as he took a gulp of the drink. The Seattle police would think they had been hit with a cattle prod when H.M. got to town. Thinking about it prompted Warren to pick up the phone. He made a call to the Seattle Police. Maybe they already had someone assigned to the case. Hamish would need that information.

  ***

  The phone call with Warren helped just a fraction. His nerves were still dancing around as if a jolt of electricity had zinged through him. But he knew what his next course of action would be. Hamish called the charter service and arranged for a business jet to take him to Seattle.

  After giving the office his business credit card information, they advised him to be at the airport in two hours. The jet would wait for him outside Glasgow, at Prestwick Airport.

  Hamish threw a change of clothing in a small duffel bag. He turned and walked into the closet and reached up for a box on the top shelf. Hamish removed his sgian dubh from the box. A part of a Scot's national costume, this dagger was a wolf in sheep's clothing. Scotsmen were no longer allowed to wear them by law. What Lori didn't realize was the knife wasn't for decoration on the times he wore it for the occasional photo shoot.

  As insane as he understood it to be on an intellectual level, Hamish's gut screamed for a weapon. This dagger had served him before, and it would go with him. With the little blade, he slit open the top of his right boot, separating the lining from the leather outside.

  Hamish pushed the knife into his boot. The thick leather on the outside resisted the dagger, but the soft leather lining bulged inward as he knew it would. Hamish placed the knife just slightly forward of the center of his boot where it would not interfere with walking.

  Keeping his wits about him would be necessary. If the polis or American Customs shook him down, they would surely find the knife. That would be atrocious indeed. He must keep his head below their radar. Hamish knew he could play the celebrity card in the U.S. Walking a few steps to check the placement of the knife, Hamish decided the slit was in the proper place.

  The ride from the glen to the airport would be the trickiest part of the trip. The A82 was not a forgiving road. And he must hurry; too much time had gone by already.

  The big man ran out of the main house and down the path to the cottage where Mrs. Wier, their housekeeper, lived. He rapped on the door and drummed his fingers on the doorframe while waiting impatiently for the middle-aged lady to answer.

  "Good eve tae ye, Hamish." The plump, blonde woman smiled at him.

  "Mrs. Wier, I must hurry. Lori has disappeared from tha hotel in Seattle. I need ye tae stay in tha house. Please monitor tha phones. There may be ah ransom demand, ye ken?"

  "Och, aye. Oh, Hamish! Some crazy, mayhap? Tha poor lass will be feart!" Her hand went to her throat.

  "Ye have Warren Hale's number. Call him if anything comes in. I must go. I've ah jet tae catch." Mrs. Wier pulled him into her arms for a quick hug.

  "Go with tha Lord, Hamish. I'll be prayin."

  "Ta, Mrs. Wier. I've nae time."

  He would take the new bike, the one he bought in Los Angeles. It would get him down Loch Lomond side the quickest. Hamish had shrugged on his jacket before he bungeed down the duffel bag. He would have to be careful traveling down
the narrow road in the dark. There would be cross traffic to deal with at 9:00 p.m. But he hoped to be in the air by midnight.

  The bike roared to life when he engaged the starter. He had no time to deal with kicking it over. It wasn't long until Hamish, and the motorcycle were flying down the two-lane blacktop which twisted around the villages edging the side of Loch Lomond, and down to Glasgow.

  It felt as if his heart would beat out of his chest. 'No time, no time.' The refrain sped up as did his heartbeat.

  "Nay. Keep it down. Cool down, ye bloody eejit! Ye're nae good tae her dead."

  The windshield kept the wind from hitting him directly in the face. He tried to breathe deeply and let each breath out slowly. Nearly to the bottom of the loch, and trapped behind a slow car, Hamish forced himself not to pass the vehicle. If the polis tried to stop him, God only knew what he might do.

  The license plate on the bike was mounted on the front fender on a line paralleling the fender. The lovely little traffic cameras, installed everywhere to snap pictures of car and truck plates for speeding tickets, wouldn't see the bike's numbers.

  Every motorcycle rider in the U.K. knew of the little glitch in the speed trap system. Once he reached the motorway, he no longer had to hold it down. Hamish breathed easier when he could twist the throttle wide open.

  The Harley screamed down the motorway. The needle on the speedometer was buried. He felt as if he could stand on the air that rushed past his legs. The engine throbbing beneath him was redlined, it could give nothing more.

  The garage he rented sat on a side street close enough to the airport for him to walk there. This had been the plan when he’d leased the space. Hamish got off the bike, unlocked the doors and threw the right side open. He rode the bike inside, hurriedly shut the engine off, and then put down the kickstand.

  The engine popped and crackled in the cool space. Hamish grabbed his bag from the luggage rack. Before leaving the shelter of the garage, he leaned down to check the knife in his boot.

  It had been years since he routinely carried a knife. His mother knew. He would have bet anything he owned, she knew of the dagger. She also knew of the gauntlet he ran every day, to and from school, and had ignored that infraction. A fancier one replaced the old knife years ago. The twelve-year-old who looked to be fifteen needed an equalizer.

  His mother watched him like a hen with only one chick, which in truth, he was. Hamish did not get away with much. His comings and goings were monitored, and she kept track of the company he kept. But he needed the knife.

  Glasgow, when he was a lad, carried the nickname of the knife capital of the world. As far as he saw from the news, little had changed. Hamish and his mother did without many things so they might live in a somewhat more upscale neighborhood.

  Still, Hamish learned early on it would not be his mother protecting him; he must protect both of them. Not running with one of the ever-present gangs made him a target for every dobber with an itch to scratch. Hamish developed the reflexes of a cat out of necessity and was quite careful where he put himself.

  Then there were the twinges of things like the burning in his gut now. The first time he felt something he could only describe as awareness, he disregarded it. The four stitches in his right thigh and the resulting scar reminded him always to heed that feeling.

  Because he worked odd jobs, he stayed on the fringes of neighborhood activities, and mostly out of trouble. The music studies, along with his mother's sharp eyes, made sure he didn't fall into temptation.

  Keeping things from his mother was a hard task; as she kept diligent notice of his movements. But he never did let her find out about his learning to fight. The need to do so was all important in his neighborhood. He learned to use a knife and how to fight with his hands. It wasn't the nice, clean, in-the-ring stuff, but the down and dirty, in-the-alley, fight-or-die stuff. Thinking back on it, it was a bloody wonder he’d kept his hands and fingers intact.

  He patted his jacket to make sure his address book and passport were secure in an inside pocket. Hamish locked the garage, took a quick look around, then dashed across the darkened street toward the airport.

  It seemed as if the act of putting the knife in his boot took him from the serenity of the glen back into the shadow world of the alleys of Glasgow. Back in defensive mode, he felt every little sound grate across his nerves.

  A cat jumping across a fence caught his attention. On seeing the long tail slide over the wood, he dismissed the possibility of danger. The fog which formed a ceiling over the street did not help matters. It swallowed what little light there was, giving everything a more sinister cast.

  Quickly, quietly, Hamish slipped through the night toward the airport. The small bag sat over his shoulder, his left shoulder. His right hand free, he was ready, if need be. The ring of lights ahead of him signaled the safety of the airport. Now he must be especially careful. A person was never in the clear until you actually were there. If you let your guard down too soon, you could get killed. Hamish's body and mind didn't drop his guard until he sat in the jet.

  The pilot spoke with him for a minute, assuring Hamish they should be in the air by midnight. No delay was expected. As he listened to the jet spool up, he tightened the seat belt one more notch. Hamish hated takeoffs and landings. Depending on someone else bothered him most. The lack of control ate at him.

  But there was nothing in this situation he could control. He wondered if he needed to hire a bunch of burly security guards. The world kept getting stranger with each passing day.

  He felt the jet leave the runway. This flight was another block of time given to the enemy. God in heaven, please, he thought as the jet screamed upward.

  The clock in his head ticked away relentlessly. The worst part of it all came from not knowing what the deadline was. Deadline? Nasty word that, one he did not wish to consider.

  The copilot opened the door to advise Hamish he could move around freely. After removing the seat belt, Hamish went to the bar where he found a small bottle of scotch. He downed it in one gulp, then went to use the toilet. On returning to his seat, Hamish settled in to try to rest. It would help this thought process if he could sleep, but he certainly didn't count on it.

  "Wha do they want with her? Why Lori? 'Tis insane makes nae sense. She paints pictures, for Christ’s sake!" Hamish muttered as he let the seat fall back. An original, the woman was one of a kind. Some of the pictures she had created flashed through his mind like a slide show. The things she painted were beyond belief. "Original." The word bounced around in his head before he banished it.

  Finally, someone was coming. Lori heard footsteps approaching. She suspected it must be Sunday morning. As no porthole lit her prison, she was in a state of perpetual twilight. Exhausted from a seemingly endless round of puking, Lori raised her head toward the door.

  When someone wrenched it open, the sudden flood of light blinded her. She squeezed her eyes closed. An instant before the door slammed shut again someone gasped. A man's voice, full of anger, could be heard in the companionway. Someone was receiving a verbal ass chewing.

  "Elden! You incompetent ass!" an angry voice called out.

  A string of curse words told her the man's nationality, American. The rest of the tirade was muffled. Lori couldn't make out the words as he moved away. She wondered if "Elden" might be the young man who took one look at her before running away earlier. If so, the guy cursing him was out of luck. From what the young man had said, Lori felt sure Elden was long gone.

  The footsteps returned. Once again the door opened. Again, the light blinded her, but this time, the door remained ajar. As her sight adjusted to the light, Lori saw two men standing in the doorway. One wore a suit, the other was dressed in a uniform of white pants and shirt. The uniformed man appeared to be of Mexican descent.

  "I want her cleaned up. Get this entire area scrubbed down! Get it done now!" the man in the suit ordered.

  "But Senor Day, we cannot do so with the senora in here. This pla
ce needs to be hosed out. We must move your guest first."

  Lori had a name now. Her captor's last name was "Day". If he owned this vessel, he had money. That meant he hadn't abducted her for a reward. Worse, he didn't care if she knew his name.

  "Damn!" she muttered under her breath.

  The situation looked worse by the minute. Once again, the boat listed as another vessel went by. Lori's stomach clenched in response. The water in the carafe was almost gone, but it had cushioned the worst of it.

  Lori let the puke happen. She didn't bother trying to hold anything back. If it bothered Day, so much the better. She sat up, leaned over the edge of the bed and retched again. A little fluid came up. From the corner of her eye, she watched as the tall, thin man dove out the door to hide behind the bulkhead. A feeling of satisfaction coursed through her. Lori rolled onto her back again. Morning sickness was evidently good for something.

  The man in the uniform sighed while picking his way carefully into the room. She could tell by the way he moved from side to side that he was trying to avoid walking on the worst of the vomit. The majority of the mess liberally covered the floor right at the side of the built-in bed. He leaned over and placed a hand on her head. "You are seasick?"

  "Yes," she got out before another spasm struck her. The Hispanic man moved quickly to one side as she hung her head over the edge of the mattress.

  "We have sea sickness pills. I will get you some, along with fresh water."

  Lori shook her head. "No pills. Allergic. More puke," she warned the man as another jolt took her. At this point, there was almost nothing left to come up.

  The man's callused hands were gentle. He gave her hand a pat. "I will get you a can of soda and some crackers. That may help. Then, we will see about getting you clean. I am Juan. I will ask if we can move you to another stateroom while we clean this up."

  Juan went to the door. She overheard his conversation with the Day individual. "We must get her out of there. She needs something in her stomach, Sir. She is allergic to sea sick pills. This will be difficult."